Like Riding a Bike
by misscam
Summary: When Rose Tyler was twelve, she rode her bicycle and fell off. [NineRose]


Like Riding a Bike

Disclaimer: All BBC's. And I am not a large British TV cooperation, despite what you might think.

Author's Note: This is not a particulary fluffy tale, with some elements of hurt/comfort. No Jack about, which would place it before "The Empty Child", but no references to a particular episode. In my mind, it's a slight AU scenario out of time. Special appearances by the red bike, however.

II

When Rose Tyler was twelve, she got a red bicycle and thought it the most beautiful thing in the universe. She would sometimes sneak down to watch it, gleaming at her, promising riding it would be like flying and it could take her anywhere, even to the shops, even beyond.

When Rose Tyler was twelve, she rode her bicycle and fell off.

II

She's falling and she can't get up.

In the fall, there is pain. Sometimes like a firestorm, sometimes like the ebb and flow of a tide, sometimes like such a part of her she doesn't remember how it had been without it. 

It hurts to try to remember, so she doesn't. Just feels the cold steel of the floor against her cheek, almost soothing in everything else. If she focuses enough on that, maybe everything else will go away.

Cold. Breathe, breathe, breathe. Think of the cold. Breathe. Just breathe.

The door opens and light falls on her. She closes her eyes to the sharpness of it, another pain, another thing that isn't cold.

"Oh, Rose," a voice says and she knows it, knows the sharpness of the pain it carries too.

"Doctor," she whispers, and she wants to assure him somehow, wants to take the pain from his voice, but all she can do is whimper as he lifts her up and everything hurts at once.

"I'm sorry, Rose," he whispers against her ear, breath ragged. "I have to get you back to the TARDIS. This place is about to explode. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

She doesn't hear anything more. The pain becomes a scream and then finally, finally it is silent.

II

In her dream, there is pain. But distant, distant like the hands smoothing over her skin, like the warm tea being gently pressed against her lips and washing away the taste of blood, like the voice muttering reassuring things.

"This will make it better, Rose. This will help."

She dreams of other things the voice has said to her and knows it isn't lies. It will be better. It is better, the cotton of the pillow so soft against her cheek. In her dream, his cheek is soft against hers too, for a fleeting moment, safety between him and the bed. Nothing can hurt her here.

They hurt her there. They caught her and they hurt her, asking a million questions and always, her answers brought pain. They hurt her and the echo is still there, inside her skin.

She dreams of screaming and realises it's her, it's always her until someone takes her hand and she realises it is after all a dream. They hurt her then. They don't hurt her now. 

"It'll get better than this," he promises and there is truth in his touch.

She dreams of his hands on her back, warm and cold, massaging and stroking something slick onto her skin. It smells like hospital and she thinks maybe, maybe he is a Doctor after all.

"S'good," she whispers and her lips doesn't taste of blood anymore. She remembers blood, hers and all the others', those she was forced to watch, the fate that was to go to her. It didn't. He came, he's here, her heartbeat so slow when he touches her temples and it's almost as if he's soothing her mind too.

"Sleep, Rose."

She sleeps. She dreams of his voice, whispering silly stories about everything he's seen, everything he's going to show her, everything that is going to be so, so brilliant that she'll forget what happened.

She sleeps and she doesn't dream. 

II

She awakes to the sound of the TARDIS, a constant song of time she knows she'll never understand, but still seems to speak to her sometimes. Maybe being his ship for so long there's something in there of him too, reaching for her.

Or maybe she's just a silly ape with silly delusions.

The pillow is soft and the sheet over her is cool and she lies in the comfort of it for a while, slowly cataloging her body. There are aches deep within her, but not wholly painful, mostly just there. Her legs move when she asks them to, as do her arms. Her head pounds slightly, a dull sort of pain behind her eyes.

Lifting her head, she takes in her surroundings. She is in what must be the TARDIS version of the infirmary, the smell of medicine strong in the air. Several instruments she dearly hopes haven't been used on her is scattered about and when she spots a mirror, she's unable to resist. Draping her sheet around her (whatever she's wearing, it feels rather flimsy), she hobbles over and looks.

Ouch.

"How do you look?" she hears the Doctor say behind her, and she turns, seeing him lean against the door frame, arms folded.

"I look like hell."

The smile that touches his lips has no warmth. "How do you feel?"

"Like hell."

"At least there's consistency," he observes, and for a moment, she wants to smack him for being an insensitive bastard giving jokes instead of words of comfort. But then he walks over to her, taking the mirror from her hands, tracing the edges of the bruise across her temple with his fingers and the pain that flickers across his face makes her forget everything and want to hold and comfort him.

So she leans her head against his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist, not caring if the sheet falls or if she's left completely starkers. He goes still for a moment, letting out a sigh before he rests his chin on her head, his hands on her back barely touching her at all, as if he's afraid he'll hurt her.

"I'm sorry," he says into her hair. "I should've been faster."

"I shouldn't have gone off on my own."

"I should have known you would."

"I shouldn't have interfered with official alien police brutality," she says, then pauses. "No, that was right. The girl... The girl they were beating, did she get away?"

"Yeah," he says and when she tilts her head up, there is a genuine smile on his lips. "She did. She told me where to find you. A little brilliance and a bomb later, and that police station will be out of business a long time. Long enough for the overthrow of the government."

"I thought you said that would be today."

"I got the date a bit wrong."

"Sometimes, you really are useless," she says and shakes her head. He just grins. "Sometimes, so am I."

She laughs at her own words, but it sounds bitter even to her own ears and he frames her head in his hands, his thumbs stroking her cheek. His gaze seems to trap her, a wall of sincerity and intensity.

"You saved a life, Rose Tyler. She's going to have children and children's children because of you. A whole line of lives, all tracing back to the one you saved. You saved me, and thus everyone I've saved after. You were never useless."

"Neither are you," she replies after a heartbeat and his grin is a shield against everything else in the world, pain, despair and homesickness failing against just one smile.

"Yeah," he agrees, "I'm not useless, I'm _brilliant _in all my uses."

When she laughs this time, it's genuine.

II

Alone in her room, she stands for a while naked, letting her gaze travel over herself in the mirror's reflection. Bruises across her skin, a particularly nasty purple colour across her waist where she remembers being kicked and the sickening sound of bone breaking. Her hair looks the same, even if it felt as if they were yanking half of it out at the time. Red marks on her thighs from burns, red scratches on her arms from something sharp.

A map of pain across skin, her skin.

Closing her eyes, she can imagine his gaze travelling over her, as it must have when he took care of her and she wonders what he thought, what he still thinks. Maybe he would kiss her skin, kiss her bruises and leave her thinking them beautiful and precious. Maybe he would touch her until the lines of pain and pleasure blurred and she forgot which was which, just for a little while. Maybe he would hold her. Maybe he would...

Opening her eyes, it's just her there, shivering.

She gets dressed slowly, wincing more than once as cloth comes in contact with sore skin. She lets her hair down to cover the bruise at the temple and her clothes cover the rest. Almost as if it never happened.

"Rose!" he calls from somewhere in the TARDIS.

"Coming!"

II

"What's this?"

"Stop number one on the Rose Tyler Whirlwind Tour of Brilliance," he replies, flinging the doors open and beaming. "The planet of Cinganrali, home to one of the most spectacular sunrises in the Universe. Three suns. Fantastic!"

"It's pitch-dark."

"They haven't risen yet."

"Oh. Right."

She steps out carefully, the warmth of the TARDIS becoming the chill of night somewhere. A few stars dot the sky, but even they seem to be fading. On the horizon, she can see grey creeping upwards, which she supposes is a sign the Doctor has managed to land them the right place this once.

He walks up beside her, taking her hand, his leather jacket warm against her shoulder. 

"This is how you do it? You see everything else, everything fantastic until you forget?" she asks.

"Yes."

"Does it work?"

He turns to look at her, the first light of the first sun slowly falling across his face, framing him in light and still his face seems full of shadows.

"Sort of, yeah."

She turns her gaze back to the horizon, the sky becoming brighter, the clouds seeming to burn until everything burns and the sun can rise to flames. She isn't sure if she remembers to breathe, but she is sure his hand stays in hers all the way through. 

"Do you feel better?" he asks.

"Sort of, yeah."

"Good!" he says brightly. "We have ten more stops to do before lunch, cooked by the fantastic yours truly and you'll feel right as rain in no time, no trouble. Mind you, rain isn't always right..."

She listens to his voice and wonders how much of it he believes himself and how much he can make her believe. Everything, she hopes. Oh, every last bit of it.

II

The tea he makes reminds her faintly of grandma and an afternoon of rain, a knee bruised from her fall off the bike and grandma fussing, telling her it would it heal, telling her it would stop hurt. She would ride the bike again and she would forget. Just drink the tea, it makes it all better, that's a good Rose.

She drinks his tea and eats his lunch and he beams at her, beautiful in all his eagerness to ease her pains.

She never did forget.

II

"Rose!"

She doesn't bother answering, knowing this is the TARDIS and the TARDIS is his and he'll find her sooner or later. Doesn't mean she has to help him.

"Rose!" he calls again and a moment later, he pokes his head into her room, seeing her sit on the bed. "There you are. I thought we might pop down to Earth for a while, catch a Shakespeare play or two, drink old Will under the table."

"Yeah, sure," she says tonelessly.

"What's wrong?"

"What's wrong!" she hisses at him. "I nearly got you killed there with that guard because I couldn't..."

"No harm done," he replies, leaning against the door.

"I could've distracted him, thrown myself at him. I would've just a few days ago, before..."

"Oh, Rose," he says and she can't figure out if there's more compassion or pain in his voice. "Healing doesn't come in Instant. It'll get better than this."

"You sound like my grandma," she mutters. "I fell off my bike and I ran to her, crying. She told me to show her my bruise and be proud of it."

She tilts her head to look at him, wondering if he thinks her silly. He just looks at her.

"Show me your bruises," he says and his voice makes her breath catch in her throat. She can feel his gaze burning as she pulls her jumper off, fumbling slightly with the bra, nearly tripping over when trying to step out of her pants. He still just looks at her with the same gaze, not even a flicker of amusement crossing his face. She's almost tempted to dive for her clothes again, not sure where to put her hands, but she forces herself to stand still as she is.

He walks over slowly, pausing a step away from her, reaching out and placing a hand on her cheek. She tilts her head into the touch, the feel of his palm soft and warm. 

"Rose," he says, and he shakes his head slightly. "That you're alive is the most beautiful thing in the universe. Takes more than a few bruises to hide that. You should be proud."

He kisses her shoulder, and she closes the step between them, the wool of his jumper warm and almost itching against her skin. Lifting her head, she kisses him, his lips going still at the touch, but letting her, always letting her.

"Oh," he says when she pulls back, for a moment looking slightly confused. "Oh. Right. The human way of feeling better."

"What do you..." she begins, but then, he is kissing her, his hand warm against her neck. When she tugs slightly at his bottom lip, he parts his lips willingly and the taste of him is strangely alien and familiar at the same time.

"You want this then, Rose?"

"Yeah," she replies against his lips, not sure what is his breath or hers anymore.

He helps her slide his jacket off, lifts his arms so she can pull his jumper off, smiling at her all the while. She can't help but smile back, arching against him as he kisses her neck, his hands against her skin as soft as she remembers from the dream. Maybe it still is a dream, her hand in his, leading him to her bed. It almost feels like one; his body under hers, his hands coaxing sounds out of her she didn't know she could make, his skin warm against hers until hers feel aflame and his mouth warmer still, kissing his own name off her lips as she lets go. 

"Rose," he says and there is a stillness in her name, a stillness in everything, a stillness in time. She can feel... Oh, she can feel and it's so much life it's killing her.

"Rose," he says again and he's catching her as she falls.

II

She remembers.

In the fall, there is pain. Sometimes like a firestorm, sometimes like the ebb and flow of a tide, sometimes like such a part of her she doesn't remember how it had been without it.

She remembers, and it hurts.

II

He's humming and tinkering with the TARDIS when she finds him, and she leans against the wall for a moment, watching him. He's looking cheerful, the TARDIS is cheerful, and she's feeling smug. Even if she did wake up and find her bed with only her in it, her pillow had still smelled like him. No dream after all.

"Good morning!" she calls and he beams up at her.

"Feeling right as rain, then?"

"Not bad."

"Good!" he beams. "Glad that worked."

"Glad what worked?"

"Oh, you know."

"You thought sex with me wouldn't work?" 

He shrugs and she stares at him. "You humans have odd ideas about what will make you feel better sometimes."

"Wait a minute... Why did you sleep with me?"

"You wanted it."

"So you just... Gave it to me? To feel better?"

"Yep," he replies, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

"You jerk!" she rages at him and he looks confused. "I don't want you to now and then give me a shag like you'd give me a bike, all nice and wrapped and with 'To Rose, love, the Doctor'. I don't want you to kiss me the way you think I want and leave it at that, the nice and considerate Time Lord who always delivers for his companions in need. I want you to kiss me the way you want as well, sod consideration!"

"Do you?" he asks quietly.

She nods and for a moment, he just stares at her. Eyes burning, gaze of pain and she holds it, doesn't look away, even as he crashes into her, lifting her up, his arms locking her to him as she straddles him. His kiss is crushing, breathtaking, hard and demanding, and she knows her lips will be bruised from his long after the kiss ends.

Doesn't matter. Life is paid in pain.

Pressed against him, she can feel his want for her in the rhythm of his hearts against her palm, the sigh at the back of his throat, his hand tracing her spine so reverently inside her jumper, the hardness burning against her even with layers of cloth in between.

When she lets a hand sink down to his waistband, he flinches.

"No, Rose," he mutters, a half-hearted protest betrayed by the rasp in his voice. 

"Yes, Rose," she insists and crushes any more protests by kissing him. He's half groaning, half moaning into the kiss as her hand explores, her other clutching his jumper. He's not going to escape her this time.

He doesn't try to anymore. She watches him as he sinks into her, eyes closed and face open, all his bruises visible as shadows across his face. 900 years of living and she wonders how many falls he's had, how many pains he's had to endure, how much it's taken him to get back into the TARDIS and fly her on. Kissing his eyelids, she can almost feel it all there, reaching for her.

"No, Rose," he mutters, but helplessly, already gasping as her body urges him on.

"Yes, Rose," she insists again and takes his pain.

II

"If I promise not to leave your bed this time, do you promise not to seduce me in the console room again?"

"No."

"Rose..."

"Is your own fault for being so seducable."

"Right."

"Doctor?"

"Mmm?"

"Do you feel better?"

"Sort of, yeah."

"Good."

II

He's holding her hand again, almost dragging her out of the TARDIS, grinning every step of the way. She wonders if shagging has in fact made him even sillier, and if so, how silly can she make him?

"Earth!" he declares, as if she can't tell that from the rather familiar London skyline.

"Yes... And why are we on Earth?"

"You'll see."

A moment later, she does. A red bike comes past them, and it's her at twelve, knee still bruised, but face beaming.

"You brought me here to watch me ride a bike?"

"Yep."

"Why?"

"Because you did. You fell off and got back on it."

"Yeah," she agrees. "And the next time I rode it, I went right into a tree."

"Oh." His face falls. "So not the brilliant metaphor I had in mind after all."

She laughs, and he joins her, leaning his forehead against hers. So much pain in there, she knows now. She can sense him reach for her still, bruises and pain and alien and she kisses him gently, knowing sometimes it does hurt and he can't protect her from that and can't let her go and she doesn't want him to.

She thinks she might've loved him from the moment he took her hand and maybe he has too and they've never been able to let go and stop it since. Like riding a bike. You don't forget once you've learned, even if you fall off and it hurts.

"It's okay," she whispers and means it. "I got back on it that time too."

II

When Rose Tyler was nineteen, she got a Time Lord and a TARDIS and thought them the most beautiful things in the universe.


End file.
